"As soon as you realize everything's a joke, being the Comedian is the only thing that makes sense."--Alan Moore

Monday, September 9, 2013

DIAL M.W. FOR MURDER--The Wine Ecdysiast

A HOSEMASTER OF WINE™ PULP FICTION CLASSIC

Chapter 11 The Wine Ecdysiast

It must have been a root day for Biola Dynamic. She was urging me to plant my seed, anyway. My office was a mess. I hadn’t had sex on a desk since my last appointment at the DMV. I was confused about Organ Donation. Biola was something of a wildcat. Her claws left scratches on my back that looked like Chinese tasting notes of counterfeit Margaux. Her screams of pleasure set off the smoke alarm. Her sexy lisp saying, “Oh HosthMaster, oh HosthMaster, you’re so thick…” briefly confused me. Then I remembered--I can be sick.

A few hours later when it ended, Biola lay in a puddle on
the floor. Damn, I needed to see a urologist for that bladder thing. As she
slept, the trace of a smile on all her lips, I sat at my desk and stared guiltily
at the photograph of Avril Cadavril. Where was she? And what would she think if
she found out I’d buried my testosterone horns in Biola Dynamic? Would she know
the truth? That I’d done it for her? I knew that in order to get inside the
murders of MW candidates, I had to get inside MW candidates. Judging from
Biola, I’d passed the service part of the exam.

It was time to go looking for Tiny. I tossed my coat over
Biola to keep her warm while she slept. I’d gotten what I needed from her, a
free ride on the sommelier Slip ‘n’ Slide. From what she’d told me, people were
out to kill Mallory O’Lactic; and it was probably the same killers who’d put
Crystal Geyser in an early recycling bin. Biola would be safe in my office. I
locked the door behind me, and headed down the stairs.

When I came to at the bottom of the stairs, having forgotten
that my pants were still around my ankles, I tried to figure out where Tiny
might have gone after leaving Avril’s office with some of her paperwork. He
couldn’t have gone far. Tiny moves about as fast as Lodi Zinfandel
by-the-glass, and with the body type of a concrete egg, I knew he’d find a
place to stash those mysterious papers as quickly as he could. So I knew that
even if I found Tiny, and that wouldn’t be hard, about like finding a haystack
in a needle, he probably wouldn’t have Avril’s papers on him. And he’d most
certainly lie about it. But Tiny knows just about everything that goes on in
the underbelly of Healdsburg. His own underbelly provided shade for six Mexicans
on a hot harvest day.

There was a time when Tiny was one of the most powerful wine
critics in the country. He didn’t talk about it much now. But twenty years ago,
a high score from Tiny meant your wine would sell out quickly. As it turned
out, Tiny would sell out quickly, too. In his newsletter, The Wine Ecdysiast,
Tiny awarded wines from one to five Pasties. Five Pasties guaranteed a wine
would become highly collectible. Two Pasties? Well, two Pasties were for boobs.
At first, Tiny had been incorruptible. He paid his own way, he was completely
independent. He tasted every wine he rated completely blind. He worked sixteen
hour days tasting wine—he put the “fat” in indefatigable.

But Tiny got greedy. He was working long hours and not
really making that much money. Yet everywhere he went, he’d see people selling
wine off his reputation. Pasties were everywhere, but Tiny was still broke. The
Wine Ecdysiast began to sell advertising. At first, it was just for wine novelties.
Wine gizmos, wine vibrators, wine ben wa balls, wine ticklers, things like
that. Then the big boys started advertising in The Wine Ecdysiast. Spending
thousands of dollars for full-page ads. A busty woman working the pole with the
caption, “We think you’ll like our Treasury chest of wines.” A shot of the
night sky over Napa
Valley, only the stars
were sparkly Pasties, and the caption just read, “Constellation.” And deep in
his congestive heart, Tiny must have known that the big boys expected tit for
tat.

It wasn’t long before an intrepid investigative reporter
working for Juggs uncovered the whole scandal. Tiny was taking money for
Pasties. When the news broke, The Wine Ecdysiast was finished as a wine
publication. Tiny had a big following, and a loyal fan base. They spent most of
their time on Tiny’s chat room, colloquially called eBoob. At first, most of
them refused to believe what was apparent to everyone. Tiny was corrupt.
Pasties inflation had been growing. More and more wines were getting four, and
even five, Pasties. Wines from Constellation. Wines from Treasury. Even Bronco
had to change the nickname of their biggest selling wine to “Three Suck Chuck”
to honor its Pasties. But Juggs brought Tiny down. He put on weight, and a lot
of it. He wasn’t welcome at any winery in the world. He became a figure of
scorn. So, normal stuff for a wine critic. It had been twenty years since The
Wine Ecdysiast folded. Tiny was bitter and defeated. He still drank wine, but,
as far as the business was concerned, he no longer stayed abreast.

It was approaching the dinner hour, so I knew Tiny would be
hungry, and probably headed to one of his usual places to eat. I started
walking around the Healdsburg
Square glancing into all the restaurants to see if
I could see Tiny taking up a table for six. Hell, he was a table for six.

When I’d first moved to this wine country town, the
restaurant scene was pretty dismal. None of them had any Michelins, though they
almost all had skid marks. Now the place was overrun with fancy eateries
featuring organic local ingredients, extensive wine lists, sommeliers, and
other rodent infestations. I knew Tiny wouldn’t go anywhere near those joints. He
couldn’t afford them. He’d be at a more local hangout, or maybe one of those
new, trendy Food Wagons. Food wagons. Where I come from, food on wheels is
called a dumpster.

Across the square I spotted Tiny. There were four men around
him, and they were gesturing frantically, and it appeared angrily. Tiny was
just shaking his head. I watched for a few minutes, ready to intervene if the
discussion became violent. Just as it seemed the argument was beginning to
escalate, a limo pulled up to the group. A woman got out of the limo, her long
legs first, a brief flash of panties as she emerged from the limo hurriedly,
without the help of the invisible driver. Everything began to move in slow
motion, like the service at a Napa
Valley tasting room. With
my eyes locked on her panties, I almost missed the gun she was holding. I screamed out a warning. Two shots rang out,
a bullet whistled past my ear, and I took off running toward the woman.

She glanced at me as she got back into the limo. She seemed
to recognize me. I shouted for her to stop, but the limo was already speeding
off. I was momentarily in shock.

15 comments:

Dunna Babe, I wouldn't have your protagonist feeling too...cocky about passing that "service" exam, if we know anything about Biola Dynamic, it's that you can prove nothing about...her. Love the cliff hanging and I love you!

Marcia Love,It's actually a nice break when I publish a chapter of Dial MW. I never have to worry about the comments piling up. I don't particularly care about how many common taters show up for every piece, or about stats--I'm popular enough. I do care about the fun of writing this stupid Pulp Fiction novel, and the characters--Tiny, Avril Cadavril, Larry Anosmia, and my alter ego the HoseMaster. What's weird is how real Avril is to me in my own head (as is Lo Hai Qu). So writing a chapter every month gives me a chance to be in their weird and splendid company.

I think most folks come here to read whatever insulting, satirical, cynical thing I have to say about the wine biz, and the buffoons who run it. Not read Dial MW, or my wine reviews. But I do write all of this for fun, and for my own amusement and mental exercise. And I know when I publish another chapter of Dial MW it will be greeted with a universal yawn. So it goes. I kind of like the quiet--makes me feel like a regular Poodle.

For what it's worth, which I'm sure is little, I think, much like any good book/chapter these pieces leave little opportunity to add commentary. More often than not we just want to move on to the next chapter. Outside of doing that dorky, "My favorite line was" ala that guy you hate that stands in your grill after you tell a joke, laughing and then repeats it to you, as if you hadn't just heard/said it. "That guy" bugs the crap outta me but there are times here, when you've written something so completely that "that guy" is all I can be, and I'm sure I am far from alone. I know these have got to be so damn hard to write Ron, and you can go on and on about how you don't care about comments, just wanted to share why I often find myself at a loss as to what to say on these ones. Your talent often renders me speechless...

Puff Daddy,You're one of the main reasons I keep writing the Dial MW nonsense, you've bugged me the most about finishing it, which is annoying, but I'm grateful. The series is stupid, it's pointless, and, in a lot of ways, that makes it a reflection of the wine business. From another perspective, it's fascinating, inscrutable and complex. So, it's like wine, and like life.

Knee slappers, though, that's what I'm really after.

Thomas,I don't really want comments. I just play to that as a counterpoint to the thousands of blogs that are lucky to get one comment. I know you read my foolishness, and that's incredibly flattering. I just hope it brings you a few cheap laughs. You're one of the good guys.

My Gorgeous Samantha,Truthfully, for me, these are easy to write. The less I try to say something important, the easier it is to just let it rip, just be stupid funny.

I'm not surprised Dial MW gets only a few comments, and just from my loyalest common taters. Actually, I know that only my most faithful and favorite readers will chime in. So, for me, it's almost more intimate. You and Charlie and Marcia and Thomas and Dean and Marlene--you folks are like family. Sometimes others butting into the Dial MW conversation is just plain rude.

Speaking of family business I think it only fitting that we all wish our beloved Puff Daddy, Sir Charles, Mr. Olken as very happy birthday. Love you lots Charlie and hope all your wishes, least for the day, came true.

Happy Birthday, Charles, if you haven't yet reached the point where you don;t want to be reminded...

Ron:

It's difficult to comment on the noir stuff, as it is indeed a familiar genre and so I can't imagine what I can add to the conversation about it, except to recount the times I slapped my knee, which is about as interesting as talking about the times I twisted my meniscus--which was recently, in fact.

Started at the beginning, read my way back at work this week. It's like reading dirty Chandler. Love the homage to 'The Big Sleep.' If anyone finds a cellphone in a door of their new Chevy, please email me.

By the way, those Sommbies you sent up are doing just fine, however, I'm sending back the writers, that wasn't part of the deal.

Matt,I'd say it reads more like lousy Chandler, but I'll take dirty. The obsession with death and sex, betrayal and corruption, are what make those fictions work. The lonely dick, tired and cynical, but still fighting the good fight, adhering to his own moral code in the face of society's crumbling--it's comedy!

Thank you for going back to the beginning, though none of it makes any sense. I just adore the Voice of the HoseMaster character in Dial MW, and the improvisational approach I use to write each chapter. It's stupid, and it's fun. For me, at least.

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About Me

After 19 years as a Sommelier in Los Angeles, twice named Sommelier of the Year by the Southern California Restaurant Writers' Association, I moved to Sonoma County to explore the other aspects of the wine business. I've spent, OK wasted, 35 years learning about and teaching about and swallowing wine. I am also a judge at the Sonoma Harvest Fair, San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition and the San Francisco International Wine Competition--so I can spit like a rabid llama. I know more about wine than David Sedaris and I'm funnier than James Laube. Stay tuned for an informed but jaded view of everything wine and everything else.
I'm living proof that alcohol kills brain cells.

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